The Genius Job
by MegK1978
Summary: Col. Mike Vance approaches Leverage Inc. to help fulfill a favor from the British Government: retrieve Sherlock Holmes from his MI-6 suicide mission before it kills him. AU from the end of "His Last Vow" without the overdose and four-minute exile. To keep it in one universe, please pretend "The Ten Little Grifters Job" doesn't exist
1. Chapter 1

"The Genius Job"  
Summary: Col. Mike Vance approaches Leverage Inc. to help fulfill a favor from the British Government: retrieve Sherlock Holmes from his MI-6 suicide mission before it kills him. AU from the end of "His Last Vow" without the overdose and four-minute exile. To keep it in one universe, please pretend "The Ten Little Grifters Job" doesn't exist./p  
Author's Notes: This took me A LOT longer than anything has any right to, but I wanted to make sure it was consistent with everything. I thought, "What if the Moriarty video never broadcast?" "Could Mycroft get to Sherlock without direct intervention?" And, most importantly, "Who would be the best person/team to get Sherlock out alive?" My answers were the following story—enjoy!

Chapter 1: The Job Offer and the Briefing

Portland, Oregon, late April 2014

Colonel Mike Vance walked into the Bridgeport Brewpub, looking around at the tail end of their lunch rush. He quickly claimed a small, freshly-bussed table.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

Vance looked up at the snarled question, a smile tugging at his mouth. "Hello, Parker. I don't have backup with me this time. I came with a job for you."

The blond thief looked at him with narrowed eyes and a thunderous expression. Vance was someone she never expected or wanted to see ever again. Not after foiling a terrorist plot on his behalf and nearly getting her, Eliot Spencer, and Alec Hardison killed. "After the last time we worked with you, give me a good reason why I shouldn't have Eliot beat you down before throwing you out."

"Because I'm not asking for the US government. Someone in the UK's intel community tapped me for a favor. He's pretty high up, and I want to do my damnedest to accommodate him. I'm just asking that you three hear me out.

She scrutinized him for a moment, before asking, "Have you eaten?"

Vance blinked in surprise. "No," he admitted.

"Order something while I tell them you're here."

"Anything good?"

Her gaze turned disdainful. "Eliot put the menu together. _Everything's_ good." She turned away, quickly nabbing Amy Palavi en route to the back room, asking her to look after Vance, as an "old friend" of Eliot's. Knowing a little about what that meant, Amy followed through, making recommendations and beer suggestions.

-L-

After the meal (and he hated to admit, Parker had been right), Vance found himself in Leverage Inc.'s main briefing room. He found himself impressed with the layout, from the high-definition screens dominating one wall to the lit table and chairs, ready for note taking.

Parker, Hardison, and Eliot stood together, ready to face him down if they had to. "Okay, Vance," Eliot began, "you went through the trouble of tracking us down. What do you want?"

Vance pulled a flash drive from his pocket to hand to Hardison. "I brought visual aids."

Hardison fired up the computer system and inserted the drive, running a quick, discreet scan for viruses. Despite getting to play with the government's highest-tech toys a few years ago, he still didn't like the heavy-handed way Vance had enlisted them to stop Everett Udall from releasing weaponized Spanish flu. And he certainly didn't put it past the man to have his own e-minions put something nasty on the drive just to mess with the Leverage crew.

He threw the pictures he found on the big screen for all to see.

Vance pointed to several photos, wordlessly asking that they be enlarged. The first pic was of a tall, slender man swathed in a long black coat and blue scarf. He was pale-skinned, his hair a riot of black curls, and his eyes a strange mix of pale-blue and gray. "This is Sherlock Holmes," Vance began. "Up until last Christmas, he was toting himself as a 'consulting' detective to both Scotland Yard and private clients."

"What happened at Christmas?" Hardison asked. Something about this niggled at the back of his mind.

"He committed murder." Vance pointed at another photo: an older man, even skinnier with sharper features, but his eyes reminded Parker of a snake, and not the harmless kind—the poisonous kind that would bite and enjoy its victim's suffering. "This was Charles Augustus Magnussen, head of one of the largest media empires in the UK."

"Wait, you're sayin' Holmes killed Magnussen?" Eliot asked. "Thought it was a break-in gone wrong." CAM Media was a powerhouse across the pond; it had yet to reach their wheelhouse.

"That's the official story," Vance replied. "Turns out CAM Media was just another way for Magnussen to continue blackmailing multiple victims.

"The really insidious thing is, he never came at anyone straight on. He always went after those closest to his targets, the weaknesses of their personalities. No matter how long the chain of people between him and his target, he found their pressure points and used them, made them do what he wanted. He made the mistake of thinking Holmes wouldn't harm him, let alone kill him."

"Why come to us?" Eliot asked. "We've never allowed a murder to go unsolved, and Magnussen looked like our kind of mark once. What can you need?"

"Right now, Sherlock's in Eastern Europe. He was 'volunteered' for an MI-6 mission that will kill him in six months or less." Vance turned to them all. "His brother Mycroft's actually betting on 'less'. Despite all this, he's the higher-up asking for the favor, to make sure his brother not only lives, but is exfiltrated once the mission's over."

"It's almost May," Parker pointed out. "How do we know he's even still alive?"

"His last communique with his handlers was in the last twenty-four hours, so we know he was alive then. The problem is, he's gotten even closer to his goal and the end of the mission. I want you to make sure it's also not the end of his life."

The thief, the hacker, and the hitter exchanged glances. "Go sit at the bar," Eliot said, his tone closer to order than suggestion. "We need to talk about this, do a bit more research."

Vance nodded sharply. "Don't take too long. Sherlock will probably need that exfil sooner rather than later." He strode out to the bar, looking for something different in the beer selection.

Meanwhile, Hardison pulled up everything he could find, on Sherlock and everyone close to him, and the location of his last contact. He found himself surprised at the fan base the man had through Dr. John Watson, his best friend and blogger.

Parker and Eliot, in their own ways, looked at the map and the security in the area, formulating logistics and escape routes. They all watched the information that Hardison had gathered about Sherlock's investigation: a section of the Russian mob, or Bratva, operating in Varna, Bulgaria.

After their respective thought processes, they gathered in the center of the room for the vote. "So, do we take this job?" Eliot asked.

"It would be a damn shame if the world lost a mind like his," Hardison replied. "I say yes."

Eliot nodded, silently casting his own vote. In his mind, Magnussen had been worse than any of the marks they had taken down, with and without Nate Ford and Sophie Devereaux, and Sherlock shouldn't have to pay with his life. "Parker?"

She was of a similar mind to Eliot. Magnussen had been the ultimate bad guy, taken down the only way possible. "I say yes, and we bring Sherlock here."

Hardison blinked at his girlfriend. "Say what?"

"Even if we get all of us out alive, he can't go home. But he can have a home here, help us take down marks." She gave them both a significant look. "Nate brought us together. We changed together, and we're still together. This is home. We can give him that."

"Parker, you're getting ahead of yourself," Eliot pointed out. "We get him out first, then talk about after."

Parker nodded, knowing he was right.

"We have lists of what we'll need?" Hardison asked.

Nods all around. Eliot called Vance back in. "We'll do it, but we need a few things if this is gonna happen." Eliot handed his former CO the pages from each member of Leverage Inc.

It would probably be the most dangerous job they had ever undertaken.

They wanted to make sure it would not be their last.

Author's note: I have NO idea if the Russian mob has anyone in Bulgaria; I'm just using the country for dramatic purposes.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2: The Con

Varna, Bulgaria

It had taken almost a week between crash-course training and establishing their cover ID's in such hostile territory before they felt ready to make contact.

Dressed in polo shirt and sweatpants (what Hardison called "do-gooder chic"), Parker entered the bar that, according to Vance's research, was heavily connected to the Russian mob.

And Sherlock Holmes would be here tonight.

She sidled up to the bar, signaling for a drink. Taking a sip, she let her eyes wander over the patrons until they lit upon a mop of black curls over piercing eyes. Unlike the photo, his face had gotten scruffier with several days' worth of beard. She let her smile widen with delight as she burst across the room toward him. She hugged him while going full-tilt, slamming him against the table, rattling empty glasses. In a rush, she breathed in his ear, "I'm Alice White, I'm with Doctors Without Borders, and you're my occasional lover." She drew back long enough to chastely kiss his lips, but with the appearance and passion of a full French. He returned the kiss, lifted her off her feet in an embrace, evoking catcalls from his five companions.

"I never imagined I'd see you here tonight," she said louder, staring at him adoringly. "It's been too long."

"I agree, Ali," he replied, his English heavily accented. Keeping an arm securely around her, he turned to introduce her to the table. "Alice White, meet my friends. Ali is with _Medecins Sans Frontieres_."

"Just a Physician's Assistant, but we work just as hard as the doctors." Parker turned to him again, she asked, "Will you say your name for me again? I always feel like I mispronounce it when we're together."

His smile was indulgent, as if he was aware she was going to learn his undercover alias. "William Sigerov," he enunciated slowly, the accent making his given name sound like "_Vill-yum_".

She mouthed the pronunciation, putting emphasis on the second syllable—_yum_—making his companions snicker at their display of lust.

"Where do you stay tonight, _vozlyublennaya_?" he asked.

"Practically a suite this time, love," she purred. "And the rooms have very thick walls."

"Ah, William, go already," one of the men laughed. "Much more of this, you'll give Illya a cavity in his last good tooth." He gestured to another, whose grin contained almost all false teeth.

She widened her eyes in shock. "Oh no, can't have that. It was a pleasure meeting you gentlemen." With that, she dragged Sherlock out by the hand. More catcalls followed them out the door.

-L-

Within minutes, they were at the hotel, Sherlock acting very horny, to the point that Parker hoped he was acting. The moment they were inside the suite, she halted his hands and held a finger to her lips. In the massive en suite bathroom, she turned on the shower and pulled him in, locking the door behind them. "It's safe to talk now."

"Didn't think you brought me here for love-making, _vozlyublennaya_," he said, still using the accent, with a smirk. "And if you are assistant doctor, I am overgrown rooster."

Parker tilted her head slightly, expecting him to continue.

"You have too much strength to not have done gymnastics." He gently took hold of her hand again, lifting it to eye level. "Hands are too rough to have handled medical instruments, but strong enough to hang on to ledges, and even with gloves, fingers have calluses of cat burglar. When you were, how you say, 'casing' the bar, you look too long at jewelry and pockets where wallets are. And when you kiss me, even for show, you imagined me as someone else. So, you are professional thief, in committed relationship, and want me for something. So, you are what? CIA? MI-6?"

She gave him a small grin. "No, I'm not part of the alphanumeric soup, and my name isn't 'Alice', but I _am_ one of the good guys, _William Sherlock Scott Holmes_."

He froze as all four names escaped her, almost collapsing on the closed toilet seat, his eyes filling with tears and pain. "I never thought I'd hear my real name again," he rasped out, his accent reverting to British.

She panicked ever so slightly at his reaction, but rallied, trying to do what Sophie would have done. She took one of his hands and just held it. "You're not alone anymore."

Curling his fingers around hers, he covered his eyes with the other, shuddering, as if fighting to get himself under control. After a minute and another deep breath, he looked up at her. "Still, best you still call me Villyum until is safe," he said calmly, Russian accent back in place.

"And 'Alice' is the only name you'll get until we're both safe," she agreed.

-L-

After thoroughly sweeping the rooms for listening devices, they moved their conversation into the bedroom.

"Do you have plan for safety?" Sherlock asked. "Yours?"

"There is a plan. Right now, just keep doing what you're going. Is your mission complete?"

"Almost. Have lot of information about organization, from top down. Just have to get it out."

Parker pulled what looked like an iPod from a pocket. "I think I can help with that. Do you have it on you?"

Sherlock reached into his own pocket, producing a flash drive disguised as a Swiss army knife. "All here. Must be sent to secure server."

"And it will be." She plugged the drive into her "iPod" and tapped a quick note to Hardison, sending the contents to him. "It should reach your handlers in a few minutes. Should we have bothered with local cops?"

"_Nyet_. Half of police are bribed, other half barely care. We wouldn't know who to trust. Only big boss knows which are in the pocket."

She frowned a moment before making the connection. "You mean 'in his pocket'?"

"Ah, _da_, in _his_ pocket." He let out a breath, falling back on the bed. "_Bozhe moi_, I'm so tired," he groaned, pressing his palms to his eyes.

"You should rest," Parker said gently. "It's as safe as it's gonna get for a while."

"More, though, want to know about my friends. Ivan and his Marya, and their little one. Want to know if she will have her mama's looks and brains."

She sat beside him, surprised to find that she hurt for him, for all the pain and loneliness he'd been through for the last five months. "Will you be able to go home, when you're done?"

"Oh, want to, but no, not possible. Even if this doesn't kill me, might as well be dead." He lifted one hand, his unusually-colored eye looking at her with so much sadness it was painful, the colors seeming to shift with his emotional state. "Can never go home."

"Yeah, heard about the circumstances, the facts behind the story. From what I can tell, he wasn't just bad; he was _evil_. You took the only option you had to stop him. Hell, there've been times _I_ wanted to kill someone for threatening or hurting someone I care about." She carefully put a hand to Sherlock's head. "He threatened people you care for, and you stopped him. That makes you a good man, as far as I'm concerned. And just because you can't go home now, doesn't mean it can't happen." She smiled as she remembered something Hardison once said. "Never say 'never ever'."

Despite his mental and emotional exhaustion, he managed to dredge up a small, sincere smile. "_Spesibo_, Alice. Your man is very lucky."

"You're welcome, William. And yes, we both are."

Hardison, listening on comms, grinned. _"Damn straight, babe,"_ he said softly.

All three jumped at the pounding on the suite door. "William! Open up, _now_!"

Parker and Sherlock recognized the voice, but only he had a name to go with it. "Quick, put on robe." He stripped to his shorts in record time, messing up his hair, and trying to look sexually frustrated. He glanced through the peephole to confirm, then opened the door. "Sergei, what? You said I could go. Is there problem?"

"You could say so," the man called Sergei replied. "Call Alice out here, yes?" His craggy face was so serious, Sherlock dared not refuse.

"William, what's going on?" Parker asked, coming out in a hotel robe, as Sherlock had instructed. She closed the folds over her bare chest as she "noticed" Sergei in the doorway. "Oh, hello," she said uncertainly. "You're one of William's friends."

"But you are not, _suka_," Sergei growled, pulling a gun from the small of his back. "Get dressed. You're coming with me."

(Uh-oh! This is bad!)

Author's note: Those inside Doctors Without Borders prefer the French name for the organization.

Russian translations:

_vozlyublennaya:_ sweetheart

_da/nyet:_ yes/no

_Bozhe moi:_ oh my God

Ivan/Marya: Russian equivalents of John and Mary

_Spesibo: _thank you

_suka:_ bitch


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3: The Twist

"_Chto yebesh'_, Sergei!" Sherlock exclaimed angrily. "What is this?!"

"She is not who she says, William. Illya checked: there is no 'Alice White' working with Doctors Without Borders."

His eyes widened with shock and hurt, he wheeled toward her. "You lied to me?"

"No! William, no!"

"We take no chances," Sergei interrupted. "She comes with us now, or she comes dressed. I know which the others prefer."

Sherlock paled. "Not necessary, Sergei. I'll make sure she stays and dresses." He quickly shooed her back into the bedroom, watching as she gathered her discarded clothes and shed the robe. He quickly turned away when he realized _how much_ she had discarded. "You should run, or try to escape," he whispered as loudly as he dared over his shoulder.

Fully dressed again, Parker circled around and narrowed her eyes at him. "No, not if it gets you in trouble," she said in a fierce whisper. "We're so close to getting you out in one piece. Nothing will happen to me."

"Can we take that chance?"

"We'll have to, or your friend out there won't." She gave him a well-practiced nervous smile. "Let's go."

Sherlock had missed something again. He would only realize this later.

-L-

Hand in hand, Parker and Sherlock were marched into a warehouse an hour's travel from the hotel, seemingly abandoned. Making sure to look nervous, Parker looked around to identify exit points and where everyone was located, enemy and possible ally. Sergei motioned for them to stay in the center of the cavernous space.

Sherlock lifted her hand to his lips, gently kissing her fingers. "You have the chance, run," he whispered, trying once more.

She narrowed her eyes slightly. "We'll be okay."

"Depends on how you answer questions, 'Miss White'."

Sherlock froze, his eyes wide in fear. "Nicolai." He turned as Nicolai Kolenkov, the captain of the Bratva in Varna, strolled in, almost careless in his entrance. He was joined by several more of the gang, including Illya from earlier in the day.

Kolenkov looked at Sherlock with the smile of a benevolent uncle, and the eyes of a stone killer. "William, Sergei tells me your woman is lying _suka_. Did you know? Do I need to worry about your loyalty?"

"Nicolai, please, Sergei is _revnivyy_. Alice _is_ with _Medecins sans frontieres_."

"Sir, it's true," Parker piped up, her voice cracking. "My documents and ID are right here." She patted the handbag hanging at her hip.

"CIA has some of best forgers," Sergei sneered.

"What?!" she squawked. "You think I'm a spy? I'm a PA. I'm a marine of medicine, for crying out loud!"

"You know we can't trust your word, little one," Kolenkov commented gently, "or even William's. He cares for you and will believe what you say. But Illya, he is strangely good with computers, and has his own…" he snapped his fingers, searching for the words in English.

"Facial recognition," Illya supplied with slow pronunciation.

"_Spesibo_, Illya," Kolenkov thanked him. "He ran your picture with contact _we_ have in Doctors Without Borders, and they have no record of 'Alice White, Physician Assistant'. She is either spy or you are working together. Which is it, William?"

"She is good woman, not spy," Sherlock insisted. "And we are not working together." He maneuvered Parker behind him to protect her.

"Then you told something when thinking with wrong head," Sergei growled. "You let her into your head, maybe leak a few secrets."

"You understand, William," Kolenkov interjected, the benevolent-uncle smile in place, "there is only one way to be sure."

Her hand was suddenly snatched from his grasp. Sherlock twisted to see another thug lift her off the ground, stifling her indignant cries with one hand. "_Nyet_!" he screamed, trying to follow, to get her back.

But he had a fight on his hands. He stabbed the first thug that got in his way with a pen knife. The second got a head-butt to the nose for his interference. The next had a knife that he tried to use, if Sherlock hadn't put him in an arm-lock and twisted the blade away. Thug #4 in turn hit his wrist in just the right way for his fingers to open and drop the knife, but that didn't stop Sherlock from slamming his palm into his throat.

It was a pistol-whip to the back of his head that finally ended the fight.

-S-

The next hour was a study in pain management and mental acuity for Sherlock. Even as the thugs beat him bloody, he couldn't help but think his time in a Serbian prison during his first hiatus was the warm-up to this. The first time he blacked out, they'd dumped him on a stained mattress to recover his senses. They questioned him between beatings, asking who "Alice" worked for, what he told her, if he was a traitor. Despite this, he kept his identity and accent in place.

As had happened once before, the image of Molly Hooper helped him keep his mind as sharp as he could and to lessen the pain, even slightly. He'd even called up the sense-memory of Molly slapping him after she'd tested him for drug use, so long ago now. To know that he'd earned _that_ pain helped him manage some of the pain inflicted on him now. Very slowly, cautiously, he regained consciousness after the latest round had knocked him out again. He tried to stay still, hoping to catch someone by surprise, but his body betrayed him, his muscles twitching and nerve endings on fire. He cursed the involuntary groan that escaped him.

An ugly laugh invaded his ear. _Sergei_. "Welcome back, _sukinsyn_." He and another man lifted him from the mattress, dragging him before Kolenkov. Sergei's compatriot pulled back while Sergei held Sherlock on his knees. His left eye was beginning to swell shut by now; blood from his mouth and both sides of his face had run down to soak through his undershirt.

Sherlock knew he was in trouble when his mind started to dull and gray around the edges. He couldn't even focus enough to identify vulnerable points of the men around him. He'd always known this was a suicide mission; he'd even been surprised he'd lasted this long. There was only one thing keeping him from surrendering entirely: the woman calling herself Alice White. He'd never wanted anyone to pay for his mistakes, let alone someone who was just trying to help him. No, he decided, he had to live long enough to get her free and clear of all this… especially if he didn't.

He blinked his eye clear as Kolenkov crouched in front of him, careful not to mess up his suit. "William, is this pride or love holding you back?" he asked on a sigh. "If pride, no one will blame you getting taken in by pretty face. If love… well, she lied to you and should be punished. I don't like this, but you know is only way."

Sherlock saw the opening and took it. "Please, Nicolai, let me see Alice. I need to see she's okay. I'll tell what I know if you let her go."

Kolenkov clicked his tongue, shaking his head. "You know I can't let her go yet… but you sure you want her to see you like this? You'll scare her."

"Better scared and alive than dead."

The Bratva captain let out a short, sharp bark of laughter, and snapped out an order for Alice to be brought to them. "You know, is not like you to be so noble about woman, and woman you don't know at all."

"Think you'd be surprised at what I know, Nicolai." _And I'll die knowing she's safe, and you're in jail or dead._

"William!" He saw blond hair fill his vision as Alice dropped to her knees before him. She drew him into a careful hug. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

"You'll be okay," he managed to reply softly.

"Enough!" Kolenkov grabbed Alice and pulled her to her feet, his fist twisted in the back of her torn shirt to hold her beside him. "Now, William says if I let you go, he tells what he knows."

Alice look at him with wide eyes for a split second, before twitching one in a half-wink. "Please don't bother. I'll tell you."

"Alice, _nyet_!" Sherlock cried, half-lunging for her. He was kept in place by Sergei's grip.

"William, _da_! It's the only way." She turned to the mob boss despite the grip he still had on her. "Okay, you know my name isn't Alice White, and I'm not with Doctors Without Borders, but I'm also not a spy. I'm something worse."

"Worse than spy?" Kolenkov drew her closer, looking intrigued. "What is worse than spy?"

Sherlock watched with envy and admiration as "Alice" dropped away to reveal the shrewd thief hiding in plain sight. "I'm a thief, with friends, and a taser." Quickly bringing up her hand, she zapped him with the small stun gun she'd concealed up her sleeve.

One of Kolenkov's men suddenly started punching his comrades, who were blindsided by the betrayal of one of their own. Sherlock quickly took advantage, breaking free and grabbing Sergei's gun, knee-capping him with it. The fight became pure instinct, a combination of gunplay and vicious hand-to-hand, and mostly a blur.

He really became aware later of bodies in varying conditions, ranging from injured or unconscious to dead or dying. Sherlock's mind was racing again, trying to make sense of the last few minutes, as he swept his field of vision with the stolen gun. The blonde calling herself "Alice White", collapsible baton in one hand and pocketing the taser with the other, slowly approached him. The "traitor" in Kolenkov's men, from his cautious walk to his wary blue eyes, reminded him of John Watson in "soldier" mode. He had to search back in his memory to realize this man had _replaced_ one of the mob, had to be one of "Alice's" team. "Who are you?"

The man smiled. "Well, sir," he drawled, thickening his natural Midwest-American accent, "we'd be the cavalry."

-L-

_Eliot entered the bar an hour before Parker, looking every inch the bad ass his reputation could hold. He zeroed in on Sherlock, dressed in black, as soon as he walked in. "Okay, Parker," he murmured into his comm, "he's here. Go to the bar by the door, he'll be at your four o'clock."_

-L-

_While in the bar, Parker made sure to be in range of several cell phones, to make sure that Hardison could clone them, getting into the software and using it as another microphone. He used a real-time translation program to keep tabs on the mob's conversations. "Eliot, they have tech of their own, took Parker's picture," he warned the hitter. "We may have to move up the timetable."_

-L-

_Once Hardison had extrapolated where Parker and Sherlock were being taken for interrogation, Eliot got there first. He knocked out and tied up a straggler, taking his victim's cap and overcoat and making sure no one got a clear look at his face._

-L-

_"Parker, I'm right behind you," he sub-vocalized. "I'm going to grab you and put a hand over your mouth. Act like you're struggling, but don't hurt me, okay?"_

_Parker's head nodded, ever so slightly, as Sherlock maneuvered her behind him to protect her. Eliot did as he said, pulling her away from Sherlock, as she carefully kicked and screamed, her voice muffled by his hand._

-L-

_ "This isn't right," she said as they listened to Sherlock's interrogation—the beating he was taking. "He'll let them kill him to protect me."_

_"They won't kill him, as long as he holds out," he reassured her. "And he'll go the distance to protect someone."_

_"He doesn't even know me, Eliot! He'll protect family, but we're not even friends." She double-checked the taser and collapsible baton he'd given her. "How can he hold out for someone he doesn't know?"_

_"Because you're there to help him, Parker," Hardison interrupted over the earbuds. "We all are."_

_"Remember, this is the same guy who's killed to protect the people he cares about, who he_ _values. He values you because you're willing to help him. We've got his back now. He will hold out."_

_Eliot's head jerked as Kolenkov called for "Alice". "I'll follow your lead, Parker. Just let me know when."_

_She smirked. "Oh, you'll know."_

_He took her arm as if to drag her out, and she adopted the persona of frightened hostage one last time._

Russian translations:

_Chto yebesh':_ what the hell

Bratva: Brotherhood; the chosen name of the Russian mob

_revnivyy:_ jealous

_sukinsyn:_ son of a bitch

A/N: A virtual chocolate-chip cookie for anyone who recognizes where I stole the fight scenes from. Hint: You can find it on YouTube with Ben Cumberbatch and Colin Salmon.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4: Resolution and Results

Two minutes before the troops descended, Sherlock was hustled into the back of a nondescript black van with no license plate. The man behind the wheel consulted the GPS on the dash, driving fifteen blocks before stopping. The man who had reminded him so much of John broke out a fully-stocked medical kit and gave him a cursory examination. "You need anything for pain?"

Sherlock shook his head. "I'm an addict; I can't." Until he spoke, in his normal voice and accent, he hadn't realized he considered himself safe with these three.

"Soldier" nodded sharply and went looking for an alternative painkiller. "Hardison, we got anything stronger than ibuprofen?"

The driver, Hardison, nodded and pointed at the kit. "Large zipped pocket, there's some topical anesthetic. Good?"

"Should be, until we can get him to the nearest NATO hospital." "Soldier" found the tube of anesthetic, cracked it open, swiped it around the cleaned wounds on his face.

"Don't want a hospital." To his horror, Sherlock felt himself fading, his words slurring.

"Sorry, Sherlock, but it looks like you've got a concussion, and we're not doctors." Using a rolled-up blanket for a pillow, he gently eased the battered man down. "The adrenaline spike and endorphins didn't help. Don't worry; we _will_ get in someone you trust."

-S-

From then on, all he was aware of was images and sensations, flashes of light and sound. "Alice" speaking to someone named Vance… "Soldier's" eyes as he lifted Sherlock's eyelids to check his pupils… the scratchy feel of hospital sheets and the smell of antiseptic soap…

He thought he heard the voices of John Watson and Molly Hooper, but he blamed this on his concussion and homesickness.

-S-

Graf Ignatievo Air Force Base, Plovdiv, Bulgaria

He didn't think it had been possible, but he felt worse than when Irene Adler had drugged him to escape from her townhouse so long ago. Sherlock's hearing and sense of smell told him where he was before he could open his eyes. The sounds of people rushing to and fro, the PA system calling for various personnel, and the antiseptic smells could only point to one thing: he was in a hospital in the West somewhere, probably a military base.

Then another scent hit his nose, incongruous with the rest: a woman was by his side.

Slowly, carefully, he pried open his eyes. Forcing them to focus, he saw a small blond woman sitting in the visitor's chair by his bed, leafing through a magazine. He must have made a noise, because her head shot up to regard him with assessing brown eyes. A smile graced her elfin features. "You're awake! I'll call the doctor. And, by the way, my name is Parker." She popped up and ran out, almost catlike in her movements.

Sherlock took a quick inventory of himself before any doctor could tell him how he was. Gauze and tape covered either side of his face; his left side hurt, probably from a cracked rib; and he could still feel the lump on his head in the shape of a pistol butt. His eyes closed so he could give his mind palace a similar treatment. He shelved the skills he'd learned before and during the last five and a half months, effectively putting "Sigerov" into a closet.

He heard two sets of footfalls approach, one likely his doctor. Keeping his eyes closed, he said, "Please know that I am fully aware of my left cracked rib and the lump on my head; I'm presuming concussion still, so you need not lecture me on my current condition."

"Only that you look uglier than you did six months ago, mate."

His eyes snapped open to see a welcome face. Preceding Parker's friend Hardison, his hair a little grayer and a little longer, was… "John?"

The older man grinned and approached the bed. "Well, when Mr. Spencer called and said you needed someone you trusted, I hopped the first plane I could."

Sherlock shook his friend's offered hand, a tear escaping despite himself. "I thought I'd never see you again."

"Yeah, you weren't the only one. Rosie almost came early, Mary was that worried about you."

He carefully tilted his head to one side. "Rosie?"

John took out his phone (a new iPhone, Sherlock noted), clicking until his found the picture he wanted, showing a tiny human with wispy blond hair, wrapped in a pink blanket. "Rosamund Mary Watson," he said with pride.

Sherlock took the phone, carefully zooming in on the baby's eyes, a bright blue, and smiled. "As I hoped: as beautiful and smart as her mother."

The new father grinned. "Mary'll appreciate _your_ confirmation of _her_ opinion of our daughter."

"And Mary?"

"Doing well, but parenting is not for the faint of heart. We've had to get help from both of Rosie's godmothers just so we could catch up on our sleep. Half the time we're at Baker Street, and the other half Molly comes over on her time off."

"No godfather to help?"

John gave him an arch look. "The only man I could've asked to be godfather was on an MI-6 mission and couldn't be back in time for the christening."

Sherlock realized that, unlike when John had asked him to be his best man, he should refrain from asking why Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade wasn't approached for the job. Because Lestrade still wasn't John Watson's best friend. "How is everyone?"

"Mrs. Hudson's enjoying being a pseudo-granny. Lestrade got a few honoraria, and he and his wife had gotten together again after you left; seems to be taking this time." He ignored Sherlock's suppressed snort. "Emails are still coming into your website; no one seems to believe you were unavailable for over five months."

"Anything you could've told me about?"

John smiled. "I saved all the ones that looked interesting enough to get your attention. I'll send them on when you have an active contact again."

"Thank you. What about…" he trailed off as a petite brunette appearing the doorway. "Molly," he breathed.

John quickly made himself scarce as Sherlock's pathologist darted to his bedside. Sherlock could see evidence of previous bouts of crying, her concerned brown eyes brimming with tears again even as they assessed his condition. "Oh, Sherlock! Are you—"

Her words were cut off with a squeak of surprise when he pulled her onto the bed with him, ignoring his various pains, and held her close, burying his face in her hair. He allowed himself to breathe in her scent, shampoo and roses and _home_. He felt such a sharp jab of homesickness, it was almost as painful as his injuries. "Thank you, Molly Hooper," he murmured.

"For what?" she whispered, unwilling to spook him, trying to ignore how good he felt in her arms.

"Saving my life again."

"Okay." She carefully drew back to look at him. "I only helped you fake your death."

"And this time, when I needed to save my life and manage the pain," he gestured to his face, "yours was the voice I needed to hear, your expertise and presence. They both have residence in my mind palace, and I would have given up and died without them. Anyone could have been that voice, but I needed you. So, thank you."

She gingerly cupped her hands about his face and gave him a little smile. "You're welcome."

"And I'm sorry." He gently gripped her wrists in his hands. He wasn't sure whether he wanted to remove her hands or ensure they stayed where they were. "I'm sorry I used the Magnussen case to use drugs again, and now, because I couldn't see any other way, I can't go home."

"Because you shot Magnussen?"

Sherlock gaped at her. The circumstances of Magnussen's death had been quickly and quietly covered up. "How—?"

"Mycroft told me. And from what I got from John, you didn't have a choice. He was an evil man, and there was no other way to stop him." She quirked a wry smile. "'Though, maybe you should have done _without_ so many witnesses, including the British Government himself."

He let out a breathless chuckle, then let out a sigh that was a hair away from a sob. "Well, live and learn, right, doctor?"

"I do prefer you alive to learn anything at all." She now shifted slightly, for a better vantage to look him over critically. "Are you in pain at all?"

"Some, but it's nothing I can't handle now. You and John are better than any narcotic."

Molly's eyebrows went up a notch. "Thank you?"

He laughed soundlessly again. "Sorry, I mean I can handle the physical pain without drugs, but you are the perfect balm for my spirit."

"Better." She carefully pulled away and climbed off the bed. "Is there anything I can do? Anything you need?"

_A miracle to bring me back to London,_ he thought, but since he didn't believe in miracles— "Does this place have WiFi?"

She grinned and nodded, pulling a tablet computer from her oversized purse. "I thought perhaps you'd need access to the outside world. Have you been out of touch with everything?"

"Everything that matters." After a bit of fumbling with the touch-sensitive screen, he called up his own website and email account. As John had said, both were full to bursting with requests and cases. He scanned each one quickly and assessed difficulty. "Mostly ones and twos," he commented, "maybe a few fives, but they should keep me busy until I'm released." _And keep me away from the nearest doss house._

"What then?" she asked quietly. She waited until Sherlock met her gaze to elaborate. "As you said, you can't come home—at least not now. What will you do once you leave here?"

"I'm not certain," he put aside the tablet, "but I think the team that exfiltrated me may make me an offer. And they aren't attached to any formal intelligence agency, so if they were to spirit me away somewhere, since my mission for MI-6 is done, I'll not be missed."

"As long as you stay in contact, I want you in the world." Molly took his hand in hers. "I know it was never safe to get in touch while you've been gone, but you can now. When we know you're alive and safe, it makes your absence a little easier to bear. And if you settle somewhere, we can always visit you." Her smile was brave and watery now. "We've never liked it when you're gone, but we understood, and we'll be better when we know you're all right."

It was the most sentimental speech Sherlock had ever heard, and he should have rebelled at it. But if the last year alone had taught him anything, it was that sentiment didn't have to be a weakness, a chemical defect of the losing side. Sentiment had led him here, hurt and in hospital in a foreign country; it had also led him to Mrs. Hudson, Greg Lestrade, John Watson, Molly, and now Mary and Rosie Watson. Now sentiment had him gently turning their joined hands to brush a kiss on the back of her fingers. "I promise, wherever I end up, I _will_ be in touch."

She recognized the tone of his words, having last heard it at the Watsons' wedding. "I thought you'd never make a vow again."

"I was wrong. And I'd be honored if you'd visit, no matter where I end up."

-L-

After another couple of hours, which included a surprisingly good meal for hospital fare, John and Molly left to get some rest. But they would not be Sherlock's last visitors.

The team that had rescued him from a certain suicide mission appeared in his room: Parker the thief (Sherlock had a feeling his criminal contacts would be more familiar with her name), Hardison, and the former soldier now identified as "Spencer" (probably his surname).

"How you feelin', man?" Hardison asked.

"I have been better… Hardison?"

He nodded in confirmation. "Alec Hardison. This is Eliot Spencer, and you've met Parker. We're Leverage Inc."

"Leverage Incorporated?" Sherlock's eyebrows arched. "Explain, please?"

"You deduced that I'm a thief," Parker started, "Hardison's a hacker, and Eliot's a hitter."

"Recovery specialist," Eliot growled.

"Let her talk," Hardison admonished softly.

Eliot crossed his arms and silently glowered.

"There were five of us once," Parker continued. "We used our skills to take down bad guys who used laws and perception to their advantage, ruining good people who had no other option. We were, and are, their leverage."

"Where are the other two?"

"They got out and got married, to each other," Eliot replied. "Nate, the man who brought us together, chased all of us at one point or another, but he knew we could be better together."

"Is that what you're offering me? To 'be better' with you?"

"At least a home," Parker said. "You said yourself you can't go back to England. Why _not_ come back with us?"

Sherlock took a moment to consider them. _Hacker, hitter, thief, what roles are missing?_ "What were they? Nate and your other team member?"

Hardison smiled in fond remembrance. "Nate was the mastermind, finding our targets and formulating plans to go after them. Sophie was our grifter, and she helped Nate, kept him on the crooked and narrow. And yes," he said off Eliot's look, "I know I mixed those up. It was deliberate."

"And now?"

"We sometimes work with another grifter, Tara Cole," Eliot jumped in, "but now the work is spread out among the three of us. It was Parker's idea to bring you back to Portland with us, if you want."

Sherlock cast a look at them all. "But why take me in? I'm an addict who has to keep busy to keep away from back alleys and local drug suppliers."

"Well, you wouldn't be the first addict we worked with," Parker grinned. "Nate was a drunk."

Eliot and Hardison rolled their eyes at her blunt statement, but they weren't surprised, and Hardison even had a hint of affection on his face. Sherlock surmised that Hardison and Parker were in the committed relationship. "You think I can help you take down targets?" It sounded different, perhaps even promising.

"I read your blog, and your friend John's," Hardison replied. "Think you'd make a half-decent grifter. I'm not expecting Sophie or Tara good, but enough to get the job done."

"You're not bad in a fight, either," Eliot added, a note of grudging respect in his voice.

"You can help with the masterminding," Parker put in, "and anything you don't know about stealing, I can teach you."

"What can you know about stealing that I don't?" Sherlock asked, almost offended.

"You can think and theorize and study all you want, but I can show you the practice and practicalities," she shot back.

He considered what they were asking. He figured that he could clear all the messages in his email box in two weeks (probably solving them all), even though they were usually at the bottom of his "to-do" list. But that had been before, in London, before Magnussen, before this mission that was meant to be his death warrant. Portland can be different; not better or worse, but different. He could learn from these thieves-turned-Robin Hoods, and they could learn from him.

Sherlock Holmes said the two words that made him an official member of Leverage Inc.: "I'm in."

A/N: Well, what do you think? I made an attempt at a chapter where Sherlock and Leverage Inc go up against Eurus, but I couldn't quite get it together. Please leave a review, a comment, even an idea or two how to follow this up. I'll consider any and all reasonable suggestions. Thanks for reading!


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